


let your colors bleed and blend with mine

by 100indecisions



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Canonical Incest, Consent Issues, F/M, Harm to Children, Non-Explicit Sex, Sibling Incest, references to a mostly canonical event anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5371325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100indecisions/pseuds/100indecisions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas should say no—but he doesn't want to. Not to Edith, and not to a night with her, because he wants this, and Lucille—will understand. Of course she will understand. He loves her, will always love her, but Edith is his <i>wife</i>, and he wants this, needs something separate from that damned house or he’s going to suffocate.</p><p>Thomas and Edith, that one night at the depot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let your colors bleed and blend with mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [furchte_die_schildkrote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/furchte_die_schildkrote/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! I was relieved to see you had no particular preference between porn and not-porn, because I'm pretty sure I'm too asexual to write porn even if I wanted to, which I'm pretty sure makes me an oddity in fandom. Ah well.

The depot’s one bedroom is small and rustic in a homey sort of way, far warmer than any of the rooms back at Allerdale Hall, and Thomas feels his shoulders drop in something like guilty relief. He should be anxious to get back to Lucille, even if he only feels like he can breathe when he’s out of that house, and instead he’s undeniably grateful to be here. To be alone, properly alone, with his wife.

For fairly obvious reasons, he never spent much time alone with any of his wives. It’s always been easier that way, though not enough to stifle the twinges of guilt and misgiving he has little right to feel in the first place.

Edith smiles at him, far more relaxed than he’s ever seen her at the house. “I suppose I shouldn’t hope the storm keeps up for another night, should I?”

Thomas smiles back at her, less weakly than he should want to, but he can’t bring himself to agree or disagree out loud. “The weather here has always been unpredictable,” he says instead. Safe and meaningless.

“Well, I don’t mind,” Edith says. “This is cozy. Not quite what I imagined for a honeymoon, but I like it.” She peels off one of her gloves and steps into his space, laying one hand on his lapel, and when she runs a finger down his scarf he feels it like an electrical charge in his bones. “What do you think, husband? Shall we have that overdue wedding night?”

He smiles down at her, his hand automatically coming up to cover hers. She’s looking up at him through her eyelashes, her expression a surprisingly endearing mix of impish and nervous, too direct to be coquettish, and…he should say no. He should tell her he’s tired, they both need to rest so they can start back home early tomorrow morning, and then he should go back to Lucille and remind himself why he can’t leave her, why he’s done all of this and allowed all of this in the first place.

Except he doesn’t want to say no. Not to Edith, and not to a night with her, because he wants this, and Lucille—will understand. Of course she will understand. He loves her, will always love her, but Edith is his _wife_ , and he wants this, needs something separate from that damned house or he’s going to suffocate.

He says, “I think that sounds like a marvelous idea.”

Edith’s smile widens, and she tugs at his scarf. “Then I think, Sir Thomas, we are both wearing far too much clothing.”

“Well now,” he murmurs, “we can’t have that, can we?”

She steps back, eyes still locked on his and dark with promise, and begins to unlace her dress. He shrugs off his coat and tosses it aside, uncaring, and helps her with the dress, suddenly eager to see more of her creamy skin in the dim, warm light around them.

He will just have to be very careful, he thinks as he unbuttons his own shirt, not to say Lucille’s name tonight.

They make quick work of their clothes—far too many layers, as Edith said—and then she is laid out on the bed, golden and beautiful, eyes gleaming and cheeks flushed, and he knows exactly how to worship her, wants more than anything to show her the reverence she deserves. It feels right, skin against skin, the rush of heat, her hands tangling in his hair as he kisses his way down her thigh, smiles wickedly up at her.

Then Edith takes charge, flipping him over and straddling him, and this is familiar; he knows what to expect now, and he’s…not disappointed. Of course he’s not. He likes the way Lucille takes control—truly, he does. It’s only…Edith is so different from her in every other way, he’d thought that perhaps here, too—

Well, obviously it doesn’t matter what he’d thought. ( _When does it ever matter_ , he thinks, surprised at the sudden twist of bitterness, _when has it ever mattered_ but no, he’s not being fair, and this isn’t going to help anything.)

Edith grins down at him, something fey in her smile that leaves him a little breathless. She moves against him, stealing his breath entirely, letting her hair tumble down to drag over his chest, and he tangles his hands in it, strokes it back along her head, feels a sort of awe building up inside of him. And he stops worrying about slipping up, because in this moment, away from that suffocating house, the only name on his mind is Edith’s. Her hair drapes down over both of them, a silky golden veil, and he can’t look away from her eyes, so intent and knowing and fiercely _kind_ and he loves her. He does. It’s too big of a thought to contemplate but he knows down to his core that it’s true. She gives as much as she takes, and he takes as much as he gives, and it’s all _new_ in a way he can’t identify and isn’t sure he wants to understand.

Later. He will think about it—later, when he is again capable of thought beyond golden light and the heat of skin on skin and _Edith_. He gives himself over to it, and he forgets everything else—Allerdale Hall, the mine, the storm outside, everything he wants to forget (even, for the moment, Lucille). Nothing exists but this moment that, together, he and his wife have carved out of the dark.

“Good?” Edith asks sleepily, after, curled into him.

“Mmhm,” he returns, too contented and wrung out to manage anything more coherent, or to wonder what any of it means.

She smiles against his shoulder, her eyes falling shut, and murmurs back, “Good.”

There’s still something new and odd about this, but he’s not even close to being awake enough to think about it, so he tucks his chin over her head and follows her into sleep.

* * *

_Lucille’s hands tighten in his hair, pulling his head back and to the side until his neck aches and he’s struggling to breathe, and then she kisses her way down the taut line of his throat. She lets him feel a hint of teeth, and he shivers, doesn’t pull away, but…_

_He wants to. Because even after all these years, there’s still a flash of that terrifying moment when he_ knew _his father was finally going to kill him. He’s never told her that, never told her the worst part, that sometimes in his nightmares about impossibly strong hands choking the life out of him, sometimes it’s not Father killing him. Sometimes it’s her instead. And each time, he wakes burning with shame that even his unconscious mind can be so disloyal and treacherous as to imagine such a thing, when he_ knows _how much she’s done for him, suffered for him, sacrificed for him. Knows she would never really hurt him, and he must never hurt her because that is the least he owes her, and so he vows not to have that awful dream again. Sometimes he even thinks it’s gone for good, and then he wakes sweaty and shaking, still feeling the imprint of crushing fingers against his throat, Lucille’s voice whispering in his ear “You’re_ mine _” as his vision collapses into darkness, and in those moments he thinks his father had no_ idea _how weak and disgusting his son truly was._

_“Mine,” Lucille says now, murmuring the word against the rapid pulse in his neck, and even as his head starts to grow light for want of air, Thomas closes his eyes and doesn’t pull away._

* * *

He wakes, and stares up at the ceiling, and feels Edith’s warm weight beside him, and breathes. He wonders, for the first time he can remember, if the things he likes are his at all, or if they’re just Lucille. Wonders whether he actually likes what she likes, or if he’s just convinced himself—let her convince him—that he does because she does. It feels like a betrayal to think it, but—she’s always been in charge, in everything. She’s shrewd and determined and so, so strong, far stronger than he is, and he’s always followed her lead. Always. So in bed...Lucille has never asked, he realizes. She tells him what’s good, and he believes her, because of course she knows better than he does (and she has given up _everything_ for him, and in return, what else can he do but give her anything he can?).

Edith asked. He is not sure he wants to think about what that means.

Thomas turns his head to look at her, and for long moments he just lies there, watching her across the pillows. She’s so young, looks even younger in sleep, and he’s the one who dragged her into this with the half-formed idea that she could save them all, and…he can’t just let her die. It has to be different this time. Somehow.

Lucille will understand. She has to.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The [original prompt](http://apiroscsizmak.tumblr.com/post/132002537280/yuletide-letter) was Thomas, after his one night with Edith, tentatively comparing that example of healthy sexuality with what he's experienced with Lucille. Hope I did it justice.
> 
> 2\. It wasn't referenced in the movie (in fact, I think the only child abuse we know of for sure from the movie was Lucille taking beatings from their mother to protect Thomas, although it's pretty easy to extrapolate from there), but the art book's [abridged biography for Thomas](http://quoting-shakespeare-to-ducks.tumblr.com/post/131599089056/the-biography-of-sir-thomas-sharpe-an) describes an incident where their father choked Thomas unconscious, which seemed to be kind of a standout moment in a childhood full of abuse. So, that's what his little flashback refers to here.
> 
> 3\. The title is from "[Crystals](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/ofmonstersandmen/crystals.html)" by Of Monsters and Men, and actually the rest of it is kind of appropriate too.


End file.
